


THE HAUNT OF THE BASKERVILLES

by Amith_Shaju



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amith_Shaju/pseuds/Amith_Shaju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of the events at Baskerville Hall in the year of our Lord 1885, as narrated by Moriarty's trusted companion Colonel Sebastian Moran. Is there more to the story than what was put down on paper by Dr. Watson? Why was it published only after Moriarty's death in 1893? Could it be possible that for once the great Sherlock Holmes was outsmarted by his arch nemesis? Find out as Moran recounts his first encounter with Moriarty and their first case together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> A NOTE FROM COLONEL SEBASTIAN MORAN
> 
> The memoirs of John Watson is so well entrenched in public memory that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has achieved a cult status. At the time of writing, he is being toasted as the national hero of the Empire following his ‘miraculous’ Return.
> 
> Life is full of ironies. Why else should I, Sebastian Moran, be serving a sentence for the murder of that nincompoop Ronald Adair, when Sherlock Holmes walks scot free after murdering the greatest intellect of our times? He even had the audacity to write a book on it.
> 
> I ask men of sound mind, if Moriarty wanted to kill Holmes would he not have assigned me with the task? I have trained my gun more than once at Mr. Holmes. Each time my noble friend had forbidden me from pulling the trigger. What his reasons were I do not know. But of one thing I am sure. On that fatal day at the Falls, Jim did not intend to kill Mr. Holmes. By no means could Jim have overpowered Mr. Holmes in a hand to hand combat. A genius he might have been but when things got physical he always relied on me to get the job done.
> 
> There are many facts that the public do not know about Moriarty. As his one and only true friend, I find it my duty to reveal the genius of my dear friend. What better way to do so other than by narrating how Moriarty committed a crime right under the nose of Mr. Holmes? The case of The Hound of the Baskervilles may still be fresh in public memory. I myself refer to it as The Haunt of the Baskervilles for it was our first case together and was memorable for the visit of Rodger Baskerville and his wife to our humble quarters at Conduit Street.  
> I am sure that these stories will be met with outrage from the general public.
> 
> The admirers of Mr. Holmes will call it a tale of lies and the last attempt of a criminal to defame Mr. Holmes. For the men who are willing to give it a look, I would like to point out that nowhere have I contradicted anything that the honourable Dr. Watson has informed you. I only give you my own account of the terrible things that took place at Baskerville Hall.
> 
> Col. Sebastian Moran

That night will always be etched in my memory. It was the night when for the first and the last time in my life I doubted the predicament of my friend and partner in crime James Moriarty.

It was the night when we would murder Mr. Henry Baskerville. The trap was set and the ball already in motion. Mr. Henry was dining in Merripit House. Jim and I waited outside to witness the crime that we had hatched. After all, there is no greater reward than to see your creation with your own eyes.

We waited for Mr. Henry. I was reminded of my time as a shikari in the jungles of Hindusthan. I would tie a goat to a tree and wait for the tiger to pounce on the bait. One shot. That was all that was required to put an end to the man eater. But tonight I would have to content myself by watching the act. I was not to play an active role or so I thought.

It was then that I so the wagonette stop at the gates of Merripit House. Three men got out of it.

“Ah! Our friends have arrived for the party!” remarked Moriarty with a smile.

“Shouldn’t we warn Rodger?’

“Of course not. Why worry the old fellow unnecessarily? I assure you, Seb, everything shall go according to my plan."

I watched with baited breath as the three men passed our hiding place and went to the House. They stopped two hundred yards before the House. Then one of them, whom I later learned was Dr. Watson, went to survey the house. All this time Moriarty waited in silence not making a move. Then suddenly, I saw why he was not worried. The fog was setting in. Holmes and party had to withdraw due to the advancing fog. In another five minutes, Mr. Henry would be completely under the mercy of the hound. That was when I felt something cold in my hand. Moriarty pushed a pistol in my hand and whispered a command into my ears. I was shell shocked.

“But that will ruin everything. What about the effort we put in to create the myth? Besides, Holmes will know of our presence.” I said in protest.

“Just do as I say. Shoot when Holmes shoots. That will conceal our presence. But what about the extra bullet?”

“One of them is bound to miss.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Ever heard of probability and statistics?”

“This is not a lecture class, professo-“

Our argument was cut short by the sound of gunfire which was followed by a howl of pain from the poor creature. The time for arguments had passed. I was to decide the fate of this crime. I aimed my pistol at the target’s head. The hound had pounced on Mr. Henry. In another moment it will bury its fangs into his neck. Holmes was too far to interfere. Our plan could succeed. No one would know of our presence. But my army training got the better of me. In the army, we did as our superior ordered us. No questions were asked. My finger pulled the trigger even before I realized. The bullet hit the hound on the head. The noise merging with the gunfire that Holmes unleashed upon the dead creature. Now you may think that by losing my aim, I had unwittingly saved the life of the man we intended to kill. But the truth was far from it. My aim was accurate. I had hit my target. Moriarty wanted the hound dead.

But why did he want the hound dead? Why did he ruin his own plot?


	2. THE ANGLO INDIAN CLUB

It was New Year’s Eve 1884. The whole of London was in a festive mood. Yet a storm was brewing in my mind. It was nearly six months since I first set foot on London soil. Breaking the bond with Hindustan was tough. I missed my colleagues. I missed the climate, the food and the people. But most of all, I missed the man eaters of Himalayas. The thrill of the hunt. Waiting day in and day out for the striped yellow beasts to take their bait. It was my opium. It helped me forget my pains and sorrows. Now all of a sudden, I found myself in a cage. A cage called civilization. Yesterday, I was the king of the jungle doing what I pleased, when I pleased, where I pleased. Today, I was just a creature for exhibition. An old war veteran. A Sahib. Dancing to the tunes of civilization and its etiquettes. Civilized London had handcuffed me. Robbed me of my freedom. The beast within me wanted to break free. I wanted to be me again. Colonel Sebastian Moran. The greatest hunter there ever was. I wanted to kill a tiger, walk out to the local pub and boast about my deeds.

There were no beasts in London. There were no big game to hunt. But I was a desperate man and I was ready to settle for the next best thing. Humans. Yes, I would make London my jungle. Of course I am no psychopath. I did not intend to kill people for fun. Now who would do that? A hunt was only good when you got a reward for your efforts. And that was how I found myself strapped to a chair playing whist with a group of aristocrats in The Anglo-Indian Club.

For those of you who are not familiar with the criminal underworld of London, let me give you a small tip. While all the muscle power and guns came from the slums, the money and brains came from London’s finest. The London poor had the courage and strength to commit daring crimes. Yet they lacked the resources to pull off a giant heist. On the contrary, the upper classes had the connections and the information that was essential to organize crimes. Now these men needed a meeting place. One which would not evoke much suspicion. And so one day a devious mind came up with the idea of the club. Now clubs were so common in London that it would not raise any suspicion for a few well-bred men to meet in them occasionally . The Anglo-Indian Club was one such meeting place. It was the first of its kind, owned by the very devious mind which came up with the plan. An aristocratic gentleman who went by the name of the Professor.

It was to meet this man that I had been visiting this Club for the past two months. I was pretty sure that a rendezvous with this mysterious figure would help me achieve my goal. The Professor was the kingpin of crime in London. He had brought together the divided criminal community under one umbrella and made it a force that could outsmart even the Scotland Yard. It was said that not a crime took place in London without the knowledge of the Professor. Now where else would you go for the post of a mercenary?

Why didn’t I go and ask for it directly? Well, in matters like this a bit of caution is necessary. You should never show undue haste. Or they may mistake you for a police informant and you would end up in the Thames. Better late than never.

So for two months I had waited at my table, playing cards with a bunch of fools, hoping that he would come. Yet I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of this man. I had almost given up. But fate had other plans for me. For right at that moment, the Professor made an entrance.

It was the first time that I saw him. The Professor. The most feared man in London. I would say he was in his mid-fifties. He wore a suit which befitted his stature. He had a regal air around him. The gentlemen in the room got up in unison like obedient courtiers. All eyes were on him. No one was anxious to invoke the wrath of the Professor. Right then I decided that this was the man I would serve for the rest of my life.

“What has London come to? Can’t a gentleman have a peaceful sleep at his own home?” The Professor asked a stunned audience “Where are the law enforcers in this town?”

Coming from the man who orchestrated most of the crimes in the city this was big.

“What’s the matter?” enquired Lord Benington.

“Didn’t you here? Thomas Morton was found shot dead in his home today morning.” whispered Lord Henry. “The police have pushed it aside as a burglary attempt gone wrong.”

“A burglary?” asked Ben with a chuckle.

Thomas Morton’s house would be the last choice for any burglar in London. Who was Thomas Morton? He was the chief advisor of the Professor. His right hand man. The criminal circles had a name for him. The Architect. While the Professor organized the crimes, it was the Architect who meticulously planned and executed them. Thomas was known for his devotion to the task and the perfection of his crimes. A crime executed by Thomas Morton could never be solved. The police could never find enough evidence to make an arrest. That was the skill of Mortan. It must be one of life’s ironies. A great planner murdered because a burglar didn’t plan his crime well.

“Attention, everyone.” said the Professor. “As you all know, our friend Sir Thomas Morton is no longer with us. He was a good friend of mine. A genius in his own right. Let me offer a toast in his homage. To the greatest criminal there ever was.”

“To Thomas Morton. Greatest criminal ever.” said the crowd in unison. Not exactly in unison. Just when the toast was over, a chuckle was heard. A chuckle filled with contempt. The room fell into pin drop silence. All eyes were on the owner of that chuckle. The man who had laughed at the late Thomas Morton.

He was a young man in his early twenties. The arrogance of youth emanating from his whole body. He had had the audacity to remain seated in front of the Professor and now he had looked down at Morton with disdain. Needless to say, all eyes shifted from the young man to the Professor. Death seemed to hang in the air.

The Professor looked at the young man sternly. “Do you have anything to say?”he asked in a tone which would have sent a chill down any man’s spine.

“With all due respect, Thomas Morton was a good criminal. But calling him ‘the greatest criminal there ever was’ is an overstatement.”

“Really? What makes you think so?”

 

“A good criminal can commit a crime and go unpunished. But the crimes of the greatest go unnoticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“To commit a crime and go unpunished is easy. If you have the money and the muscle power you can get away with anything. In most of the crimes of Thomas Morton there has been scapegoats. Though the police could never arrest Morton or charge him with murder, they were quiet sure he did it.”

Now, I do accept that what this kid said made sense but his timing was poor. You do not dishonor a dead man on his funeral day and that too among his friend. The Professor’s face hardened.

“So you think committing a crime and getting away with it is easy? Then why don’t you commit one? Let’s see how you fare.”

“If I were to commit a crime, I would aim for perfection. No one would even know that the crime had taken place.”

“So, when are you going to commit this perfect crime of yours?”

“I would have loved to commit a crime. But you see, I have no motives to do one. If I kill a random person, it would be an unfair advantage to me. After all, Thomas Morton was given a contract to kill.” said the young man unflinchingly. At this moment, I was wondering whether this guy was as clever as he seemed or just a plain idiot.

“Well, I will give you a contract. Meet me at my mansion, 10 o’clock in the morning or the next contract I will be giving will be yours.” So saying the Professor stormed out of the hall. The young man continued reading his newspaper as if nothing had happened. The rest of the room erupted into lively chatter. The center of the conversation was of course the young man who wanted to commit suicide. 

From the look of it, he had never committed a crime in his whole life. Let alone murder. Either he thought that being a criminal was interesting or he had some serious mental issues. I, for my part, decided to offer the young man some sane advice.

“Have you ever held a gun?” I asked him.

He looked up at me for a moment. I thought I saw a faint smile. He shook his head and decided to read his evening paper.

“How do you intend to kill someone without a gun?” He was too lean to be any good in a physical encounter.

“You don’t need guns to kill someone. You need brains.”

“Listen son, all this brain talk is good. But at the end of the day you need a steady hand to do the job for you.”

“Hit me.”

“What?”

“Old man, the age of brute force is over. This is the age of the brain. Hit me on the face if you dare.” Shouted the kid. Now all the eyes in the room was turned towards me. I had no option now. I decided that the kid needed a punch to get his senses back. It was time someone brought an end to his insolence. So I raised my fist to hit him but what he did next came as a blot from the blue. He didn’t fight. No. He didn’t make a move. Instead he stood still and whispered.

“Colonel Moran, I see you have a few tricks up your sleeves. If you punch me, you will only be revealing your ace in the hole.”

Those words may have meant nothing to the men in the room. But it meant a lot to me. When my pension was not enough to sustain my lifestyle, I had decided to take up cards as a revenue option. I had earned a steady income by using methods that were not exactly ‘noble’. ‘The ace in the hole’ and ‘tricks up your sleeves’ meant this kid was aware about my deeds. So I had two options before me. First was to knockout the kid with one blow. I was capable of doing it but if the kid babbled about my deeds the next day, then the next contract the Professor would give would be for me. So, I chose the second option. I swallowed my pride and walked out of the room knowing very well that I could never enter the club again. I would be known as ‘the old man who was afraid of hitting the kid’.

It was 11 o’clock when the kid finally left the club. One hour for the New Year. He should have celebrated it in the club. Then he would have had a New Year. I felt my pistol in my pocket. By refraining from exposing me at the club, the kid had signed his death warrant. I could have spared him till tomorrow. He would have met his death at the hands of the Professor. But he had insulted me. So he was mine.

I followed him quietly to his quarters. The time was a quarter to twelve when the lights went off in his room. The lock to his room yielded without protest. Slowly I climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom. His sleeping figure could be made out in the moon light. This was the guy who wanted to commit the perfect crime. Let me show him how to do one, I thought to myself. Maybe he was my entry ticket to meet the Professor. I took a pillow and pressed it on his head and at that very moment I was aware of the mistake I had made. The kid’s head was too soft. Too soft to be a head. Something hard touched the base of my neck. I knew my game was up. The hunter had become the hunted.

“I may not be a good shot. But I ain’t gonna miss from this range. Now drop your gun.”

I dropped the gun. Struggling was of no use. I had made a beginner’s mistake. I had underestimated my prey. I had lowered my guard. Now I was to pay for it with my life. All of a sudden all the pieces of the puzzle came together. The veiled threat. It was an invitation of death designed to make me follow him.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You.”

“Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“Before I die, I want to know why you want to kill me. Was it for murdering Colonel Stevens or are you Roxane’s brother?”

“Who said I wanted to kill you?”

I was puzzled. Why else would someone hatch such an elaborate plan? What else did he want?

“I want you to be my partner.”

“What?”

“You were right. I am not good with the gun. I need a steady hand. Someone like you,  
Colonel. An expert hunter.”

“And if I refuse?”

“What’s the time, Moran?”

“11:57”

“Good. Merry Last Year.”

“Wait. What are your terms if I join you?”

“We split the share equally.”

“Agreed.”

He extended his hand. I gladly shook it. Till then I had thought him as an arrogant kid. But now I saw him for what he really was. A cold calculating brain. Always one step ahead of his enemies.

“The name is Moriarty. James Moriarty.”

In the distance the Big Ben chimed. The New Year had begun and a new partnership with it. A partnership which would change the criminal landscape of London forever and ever. Amen


	3. AN OPEN BOOK

The next morning I found myself in front of Radnor House, the mansion of Lord William Radnor, who was more popularly known in criminal circles as the Professor. The manor was situated on the top of a hill in the outskirts of London. From the front gate, we could see the whole of London below us.

“James-” I began.

“Please, call me Jim.” Said Moriarty.

“Jim, there is one thing that I don’t understand. Why is it that the Professor did not kill you straight away? You see, the last time someone talked to the Professor the way you did, it didn’t end well for him.”

“Are you disappointed that the Professor didn’t kill me?”

“No. Of course not! I just couldn’t help wondering. I mean, why should he risk his reputation by giving a first timer a ‘contract’?”

“Maybe he didn’t think I would accept the challenge. Or maybe he needed a replacement for Thomas Morton.”

I just couldn’t help laughing. Here is a guy who has not yet committed a crime and he is comparing himself to the famous (or infamous, depends on the way you look at it) Thomas Morton.

“Don’t kid yourself, Jim. If the Professor wanted to replace Thomas Morton, he has enough candidates to fill that spot. Nobody replaces a queen with a pawn.”

“If the pawn is ready to go the distance, then he will one day become the all-powerful queen. Don’t forget that, my dear friend.”

“That’s not the point, Jim. I am beginning to wonder if there is any client waiting for us in this mansion. You so the grounds, didn’t you? The gardener was busy digging holes. I wonder if one of those holes is for us. I mean no one would be willing to risk a client on a rookie like you…unless he doesn’t care a penny for his client’s life.”

Just then we reached the front door. The butler opened the door for us and led us into the drawing room. It was a spacious well lit room.

“Good morning, Moriarty. I really didn’t expect to see you today.” said the Professor as he entered the room. He seemed to be in a jovial mood.

And then the Professor saw me. His smile vanished. Clearly, I was an uninvited guest. It suddenly dawned to me that I might have made a ‘grave’ mistake in accompanying Jim today. So grave, that I may end up in the grave.

“This is my friend Sebastian Moran, sir.”

But the Professor was not pleased. How did I know? Because I was staring at the wrong end of the Professor’s pistol. Actions speak louder than words!

“Mr. Moriarty, I do not remember inviting this gentleman to my manor. I know you very well, Moriarty. You have been working with me for the past three years. That’s one of the reasons you are still alive. But that doesn’t give you the right to bring every tramp and mole to my manor. So I will give you one chance. Tell me all you know about this man. Convince me why I shouldn’t pull this trigger right now. Or both of you will not leave this room alive.”

I looked at Moriarty. He was staring at me as if he was trying to deduce my past from my looks. I gulped. When did I decide to become partners with this idiot? Twice in twelve hours I am at the wrong end of a gun. Yesterday, Lady Luck was on my side. Moriarty had never killed a man in his life. Therefore he was ready to offer me a chance. This fool made a foolish offer and I was idiotic enough to fall for it. But today things were different. The Professor had enough blood in his hands to put even Count Dracula to shame. He had murder in his eyes. He wouldn’t flinch for one moment before he pulled that trigger.

As for Moriarty, what the hell did he know about me? He might have heard that I was good with guns. Nearly everyone in the Club knew about my reputation as a hunter. But that’s all they knew about me. I hadn’t told anything more to Jim and neither had he asked. So what was he going to say to the Professor? That he had heard that I was good with guns and so brought me along with him. This fool would get us both killed.

“Sir, I really don’t know much about Sebastian Moran except that he is one of the greatest marksmen in London.” See, I told you that fool would get us killed.

“Is that all you know about him? Some gossip? For all I know, he could be a police informant. If you pick your partners with such recklessness then you are a danger to me as well.”

The gun was now aimed at Jim. For a moment, there was complete silence. Nobody moved. Then finally Jim broke the silence.

“Well, I know a few other things. I do not know if this is really important but he was born in London in 1840 as son of Sir Augustus Moran, whom you may remember as the British Minister to Persia at the time. Moran did his education in Eton and Oxford and then joined in the army. He served in the Jowaki Campaign as well as in the Afghan Campaign. He rose to the rank of Colonel in the 1st Bangalore Pioneers. He retired in 1879 and pursued his life as a hunter in the jungles of Hindusthan. He arrived in London last year and has been a regular visitor of your Club for the past few months. In between he has written two novels on his hunting experiences in India.”

“How do I know that what you say is true? I need proof?” said the Professor. But his grip relaxed and a small smile was playing in his lips.

Jim checked his watch. Then said, “Sir, if you have a contract for us, then introduce us to the client. I neither have the time nor the interest to go through your silly tests. You know as well as me that the person standing before you is Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“What makes you think so, Mr. Moriarty?”

“For one, Mr. Moran is an open book. And two, if you didn’t know him, then we would have been dead even before we set foot in this room.”

“Good. I am impressed. I think our client will be pleased to meet you.” So saying, the Professor left the room, leaving me once again in the company of Jim.

Truth be told, I was dumbstruck. How the hell did he know all these things? Very few people in London knew about me in such detail. Here is a guy whom I just met yesterday and he stares at my face for a minute and comes up with my biography. I really didn’t know what to say. I had heard about a clever Inspector in Scotland Yard who could pull that trick. He could tell the history of a person from minute facts which a normal person would ignore. Now what was his name? Yes, I got it. Lestrade. (At the time I didn’t know that Sherlock Holmes was behind all of that). Could this be Lestrade? Had he gone undercover to capture the Professor? Of course not. Lestrade had just solved a crime and was in the news all the time. He couldn’t be in two places at the same time. But there were a lot of questions that were left unanswered. How did Jim know all those personal details about me? What did the Professor mean when he said that he and Jim had been co-workers for three years? And who could be the client whose life the Professor was ready to risk? What had he done to anger the Professor? And what the hell did Moriarty mean when he said I was an open book?


End file.
